Lost and Found
by PhantomProducer
Summary: Present-day Harry Thompson and Nanette Baker are two strangers touring the same palace...or so they think. Upon seeing each other, their true selves reemerge: Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. What do they have to say after centuries of separation? Kind of AU.
1. Harry, Henry

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Tudors_. If I did, no one would ever see Henry or Charles Brandon again…hubba-hubba! ;-)

**Author's note:** I began writing this awhile back, after watching the first season of _The Tudors_. Since the show features my absolute favorite era in history, I was compelled to watch it. This was inspired by Natalie Dormer and Jonathan Rhys-Meyers' fantastic job as Anne Bolen and Henry VIII. I wondered how they would respond meeting again in the future…reincarnated, and retaining memories of one another. And so this puppy was born. Please read, review, and all that. Thanks, and enjoy!

* * *

Harry rolled his eyes, bouncing from foot to foot at the entrance of the hotel.

"You promised me that you'd go on this tour, at least pretend you'll have a good time!" Kate, his girlfriend of four years berated him. He glanced at her in annoyance, the harshness of his gaze wiping the cheerful smile off her face. Once she looked away, Harry felt a lump of guilt rise in his throat, but he swallowed it down quickly. She was so insistent on seeing a stupid building; how could she expect him to want to go when he begged her not to be dragged along?

Harry Thompson was a young man in the prime of his life. At twenty-five, he was a rising star in his father's shipping company. The hair on his head was cropped close, almost in a sort of buzz cut. The blue of his eyes was piercing and yet calming, like Harry was able to see through your lies and yet accept them the moment they fell from your tongue. He was well educated, reared by ambitious and rich American parents. They'd sent him to the best schools money could buy in the United States, and then shipped him off to Cambridge for university. The result? Grades that reflected intelligence but a laxness towards curriculum, and an acquired accent used to charm his female counterparts back in the states. And now, his Kate pleaded for a British holiday, to see the lands of his forefathers with him. He complied, slightly eager to visit his old college pals and to go on jaunts to his old haunts.

But no, that hadn't happened. She made it so that the trip was about tours and historical markers and all boring nonsense. What did he care about the Palace of Westminster? The cab pulled up in front of the building, and once Harry and Kate were situated, he directed the driver to take them to the landmark.

Of course he knew the history of the palace; it was a beautiful building that he'd only glimpsed in the past when he and his friends roamed the streets of London when the weekends came. The clock tower was particularly striking (_'Ha, a pun!'_ he thought to himself as the car ambled along). But something about it was familiar to him, and not just Big Ben. He researched it for a class one semester: it was the Parliamentary building. The original built during William the Conqueror's time was long gone, but what was put in its place had lasted hundreds of years, and up until 1512 was the principal home for the monarchs of England. The last to use it as such was King Henry the Eighth.

'_Ah, the tyrant, the dissenter, the all-powerful King Henry with his six wives! What a man,'_ Harry thought admiringly. _'So powerful, and yet…I think he was poor man. He only wanted to continue his line, wanted what he wanted and had to provide for the whole of the country. Poor man indeed…breaking with the church and Pope, just so he could give his people an heir. God, the English are a ridiculous lot. Stupid laws. If he'd lived now, he'd be able to cast off his first wife and nobody would think the less of him or the girl he truly wanted to be with.'_

Snorting to himself, he curled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his lips to stifle a laugh. Kate looked at him curiously.

"Harry, honey, what is so funny?" she asked hesitantly. The poor woman had been walking on eggshells with her younger lover for the past couple of months. For some reason Harry found himself getting bored of Kate after four years of dating. Perhaps that was the reason why he'd cheated on her several times in the last month; he was exhausted of the woman he once loved more than life itself. Was it because she was in her thirties and ages ahead of him? Partly. It was also because she said one thing and did another. Kate would claim utter devotion to him and the company, and yet snub his friends and business associates when she so chose. She'd defied him a few times, speaking out against the rising costs and how they affected the trades within companies across the world. Her parents were successful lawyers, covering Harry's ass when he got into more trouble than he had to and saving relations when his rage severed ties with people who could build up his reputation. Lately it was because of Kate they struggled to keep Harry legally free and clear. Why did she not want to protect his interests? Why did she hurl him to the wolves?

The hardest truth was that…well, the sex had gotten monotonous. He felt almost nothing whenever they decided to perform the act, except relief when it was over. That way he wouldn't have to let her see the guilty slide of his eyes towards the window just to not look at her. She was still pretty, even in her thirties: dark brown hair that flowed, dark eyes, and a delightful smile that was still so contagious. It wasn't that he thought her ugly. It was just that it was the same old forward-and-back, up-and-down dance of desperate lust and no fulfillment. He began to hate himself for not taking any pleasure of being with his girlfriend, and so they were no longer having sex. "They" weren't, but Harry was; some girls back home were willing to be just one night stands, and after having his fun, he'd go home burning, yet unashamed.

Turning his eyes on her, he noticed her playing with the promise ring he'd given her two years ago. At one time, he thought she'd be his only future. Now, he was no longer sure.

"Oh, nothing, Kate. I was just thinking about poor King Henry VIII, and how things with his divorce would've gone without a hitch nowadays," he supplied for her, giving her a tiny grin. In turn, she frowned.

"I pity his first wife. She did nothing to deserve being thrown away. From what I understand, she was almost a saint, but just because Henry wanted a boy, he pushed her away," she sniffed, shaking her head.

Harry shrugged. "Perhaps he was just doing what he felt was right. Being a king and all, he did have the right to do as he pleased. And there was a lot of pressure to provide the country with an heir in those days; the monarchy was balanced on his shoulders. And from what _I_ understand, she was past child-bearing age. It would've been better for her to leave and just accept the fate in store. Opposing him did nothing but bring her more grief and him more trials than he needed."

Kate stared at him, amazed. "Are you serious? The man was arrogant, vain…and he was a cheater, with at least two women on the side while he was married! How can you defend him?"

He glared harder, nearly snarling as he responded, "Why not? It's not like he was all bad. Without him, there would be no Protestantism. No Church of England. He did a lot for England; he just was fulfilling demands."

She scoffed at that. "More like fulfilling his need to have sex with that slut Anne Boleyn. She was the reason he went from King to tyrant."

Harry looked away, infuriated for no obvious reason. Conflicting feelings flowed through him. One claimed Anne was his one true love; another feeling was a chastisement for Kate's ignorance for what was right in front of her eyes. Breathing slowly, he regained his faculties and locked his gaze onto the streets passing by the car. After a moment or two of silence, the vehicle halted in its travels and Kate and Harry were deposited in front of Westminster. They mixed in with the waiting group, and eventually they began to tread up a staircase.

Unexplainably, Harry began to feel strange.

'_It's as if I've been here before…like I've come home, but nothing's right anymore.'_

He caught himself looking a certain doorway, thinking that it was in the wrong place, and that the lords and ladies would've entered from a different path. In one room, he found himself thinking about an old man in a red cap, giving him advice while he stared at the nobles coming and going on the lawns below. Images of men with cloaks and swords, of ladies in long dresses, extraordinary jewels and towering headdresses filtered through his mind's eye as they went on. Upon reaching a long gallery, Harry received the most disturbing and wonderful vision of all.

A girl, younger than him but only by a few years, was studying a painting hanging on the wall with another group. Oddly, Harry felt his eyes were drawn to her. Her profile was lovely: long, black hair was loose on her shoulders, curling lightly at the tips and a long, elegant neck underneath all that. Dressed in a simple sweater and jeans, she still outshone the beauties of her group that were batting their eyes at him. She couldn't have been taller than 5'5", but he wanted dearly to see her face. As if on cue, she turned to face him…

And suddenly Harry had fallen into a dream. Only, he wasn't Harry…he was _Henry_…


	2. Nanette, Anne

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Tudors_. If I did, no one would ever see Henry or Charles Brandon again…hubba-hubba! ;-)

**Author's note:** Here's the second part. Read, review, and enjoy!

* * *

Nanette Baker pulled her sweater over her head, groaning lightly.

"Come on, Marie, I'm not gonna wait for you all day!" she cried, adjusting the shirt quickly. Her sister had come for Kent to visit her in London, and she had talked about seeing the sights. What better place could there be than Westminster and Parliament? Then again, Nanette was more inclined towards politics than her sister. She had been since she was a young girl, growing up in the country outside of Eastling, watching the news avidly and following along as new laws were put into place as they were recorded in the newspapers.

"I'm coming, Nan, calm yourself!" crowed the blonde beauty as she entered the room. She'd slung on a short skirt and t-shirt, along with a denim jacket and high boots. Cutting her bright eyes over at Marie, Nanette pursed her well-shaped lips and raised an eyebrow.

"You intending on picking up somebody at the palace, Mare?"

"Well, excuse me, Miss Prude," Marie snapped, getting defensive. Granted, she didn't have the best reputation; she was a tease, and tended towards her generation's ease with casual sex. Nanette didn't understand how her sister could be that free with her body. She always thought self-respect and waiting for the best man to sweep you off your feet was the better options, and it was hard to be sharing rooms with the familial contradiction. "Changing your look may get you a boyfriend, get rid of all that jealous tension."

The twenty-year-old brunette snorted, "I am in no way jealous of you, Marie. Come on, let's not wreck the day. Let's go to Westminster, we need to make it to the next tour quickly."

"Only if we hit the clubs later tonight. You can't be all studying and history, Madame Bookworm," her sister stipulated. Nanette agreed, if only to get her out to the car. Having no time to do anything with her hair now, she just ran a comb through her black tresses and bustled into her car. Later she would think of an excuse not to go out that night.

She had no real interest in the club scene. For all her life, she had an aversion to being overly affectionate with men. A voice, gently and yet frightening, told her to stay away from men who could lead her to trouble, to wait for her husband to be and cling to him. It was like the voice had something to prove, like it wanted to show that it was honest and faithful to someone.

As she drove through the streets of London, she turned her thoughts towards the great palace. She knew its history, as she was a history/political science double major at college. The two seemed to walk hand in hand, and she hoped to work in Parliament some day. For now, she was satisfied to reflect on the major players of the world's stage who had walked through its halls, decided policy, and ruled Britain.

Having lived in Europe, in such a historical country, she couldn't fathom not being interested in such things.

'_Let's see…the last king to live in Westminster was King Henry the Eighth. Oh, dear, that man must have been a horror to live with,' _she mused privately, turning sharply left. _'Especially with him throwing them off when they displeased him, or killing them.'_

Like poor Anne Boleyn was killed, simply for being unable to bear him a son. How desperate she must have been, eager to conceive and still unable to, no matter how often the king visited her bed. How powerful she must've been, overturning the natural order and becoming the king's sweetheart before becoming his wife. How strong she had to be, to withhold her virginity and to face the block at the end of her life.

Thank God Nan's life hadn't been that eventful, or damaging. She grew up, the youngest of three siblings, in Kent, and yet she was the brightest. Her intelligence was close to genius level, and she prided herself on it. After all, she felt she was nothing compared to her sister in looks and attention-getting early on, and so resigned herself to the life of academia. Until she turned sixteen, that is. She sprouted into womanhood overnight it seemed. Suddenly her raven hair was a lovely shade, and her bright eyes attracted attention. Her neck, once compared to a giraffe's, became swanlike and graceful. Her face retained a childlike innocence, but she proved to be worldly in other matters. Not all matters, though.

She liked to flirt, but she had never been able to commit to any man who passed her way. In part it was because of the voice in the back of her mind, and it was also because of her own pride. A simple English boy was not in the cards for Nanette Baker; she wanted a man who could command a company, who could financially support her, and secretly give her an amount of power. Being the youngest of her family basically rendered her powerless, and so she craved it like she craved chocolate on a bad day. That was why she had to lead every group she was a part of, command every project that came her way in school.

The man she would marry had to treat her like an equal, a partner in crime…her man had to be a knight in shining armor as well. She was a woman of contradictions, but then again, what woman isn't?

"You're going to miss the parking lot if you don't turn right, Nan," Marie's voice cut through her train of thought. Hurriedly Nanette turned, finding a prime spot very close to the entryway. They paid the touring fee and joined the next group to go in. As they entered the building, she noticed a limousine pull up to the doors just before her group rounded up a staircase.

"Wonder who that was?" she murmured, poking Marie's arm and gesturing towards the front. Her sister just shrugged and slipped after the group, tugging Nan along.

The building was beautiful, but Nanette was sure something was wrong with the layout. Doors were not where she expected them to be, rooms that were certainly splendid ones were sealed off, and all the while, she felt as though the people around her were not paying her the proper deference. Perhaps she was so used to going on power trips that the feeling was getting to her head.

Pausing to gaze at a particularly striking painting twenty minutes later, she didn't notice her sister or her group vanish around a corner. As she took in the masterful oils strokes upon the canvas, she could feel someone's eyes piercing the back of her skull. She hated being stared at, and so she decided to see who it was there.

An extremely handsome man with a buzz cut and bright blue eyes stared intently at her, and the world seemed to screech to a halt. His face, lacking facial hair of any kind, was striking. He seemed to top out at six feet, and he looked athletic. But more than that…Nan felt like she knew him from long ago, liked she'd loved him once.

The edges of her vision started to go blurry. The room melted away; her jeans and sweater disappeared, and a golden gown was laced over her body. She glanced around, realizing the room was as she remembered it, and that the palace was back to the way it was.

Nanette Baker was flung into the mists of time. Anne Boleyn had taken her place.


	3. Henry and Anne, Reunited

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Tudors_. If I did, no one would ever see Henry or Charles Brandon again…hubba-hubba! ;-)

**Author's note:** Here's the third and final part. Read, review, and enjoy!

* * *

Henry Tudor, King of England and eighth Henry of the realm, remembered where and who he was. Looking down, he'd found he was in his normal clothing: breeches, hose, doublet, and boots. His wife Katherine of Aragon was nowhere to found, nor was Cardinal Wolsey, nor Thomas More. He was all alone in his palace; not even Charles Brandon, his friend from childhood, could be found as he paced down the hallways. Westminster looked just as it should, everything in its exact and right place. Candles glowed softly in their sconces, extinguishing behind him as he passed. He felt himself drawn into a grand chamber, with a fireplace along the north wall…and a beautiful maiden appeared in front of it. She stood stock still, as if waiting for him to come. Her gown was yellow and gold, cinched tightly on her body and sparkling even in the weak light. Her hair, black as a raven's wing, fell down over her shoulders, gracing her neck. But her face…oh, he knew that face! It was his dear Anne, with her dark eyes, her pretty upturned nose and kissable lips. His Anne…Anne Boleyn.

"Anne, my Anne," he crooned, stepping forward. Instead of running away, like he thought she would've, she crossed over to him.

Placing a hand on his cheek, she murmured, "Henry. I've missed you…"

"How long has it been, sweetheart?"

"Over five hundred years," Anne replied, stroking his cheek. Henry flushed and sputtered, the memories flying at him. He'd loved her, wedded her, bedded her…spied on her, suspected her…_killed_ her. For years he'd forgotten his great crime. How she must hate him so! And yet, her hand still lay upon his jaw, and she did not turn away in repulsion.

"Anne…there's no way for me to explain or excuse what I've done. I do not…I do not know where to begin," he started, trying to hold her close. He was repaid with a hasty slap to the face before she walked away.

Stunned by her action, he could only listen while she talked. "Henry, you know what you did to me. To Elizabeth. To yourself. For these past centuries, I've hated you, demonized you because of what you did. You left me for a milksop, and you couldn't stop once you started. I had to suffer, to die so you could what you wanted, what I tried to give you: a son. Truly, I hated you."

This was no reconciliation like he'd been hoping for.

"If you're going to cite me all my wrongs, perhaps then I should leave," he said icily.

"No! You need to hear what I have to say," she pleaded, gripping his arm tightly with both hands. "I've been waiting to retaliate for years, but I've wanted to talk to you for even longer. Henry, even though I hated you for so long, I've realized that despising you changed nothing. We both died, we both faced our faults and our ends. Death is nothing, now that we've found one another again."

"How could I have missed you?" he wondered, turning his attention to the high windows along the far wall. The greens were empty; they were truly alone. "If we've both been wandering for hundreds of years, how could I not see you?"

"It wasn't meant to be," Anne stated, falling back. "Time had to pass; we had to become memory itself. And since you did not suffer in death-"

"I was lying in a sickbed unable to move! I was in pain," he admonished her, the weariness of his old bones suddenly weighing him down again.

"-It took you longer to come back," she pressed on, ignoring his outburst. "I had to learn that our lives are made up of the good and the bad, and that no matter how I felt, the past will remain as it is for all time. I dealt with my fury on this side; you dealt with your guilt every day you lived without me. I had to wait until you learned that same lesson."

It was a true statement. His thoughts, his moves, his life had been plagued by Anne Boleyn, even after her execution. He ate to fill the void she'd left behind, and he withdrew sanity as he raged against his inexcusable trial and behavior towards her. His paranoia led to the divorce one woman, and the deaths of two others. Oh, little Katherine Howard…could she forgive him for his crimes? Did Anne truly forgive him?

"Henry, look at me."

He did as she commanded, like he'd done long ago in the first flush of their love.

"Anne-"

Placing her fingers against his lips, she stopped his voice again, took his very breath away in only the way she could.

"We're being given a second chance," she whispered. "We must forget the past, and leave it as thus. We're being given a future now. I've done horrible things: threw down a rightful queen, disrupted the monarchy, held a vendetta against an old man, and maintained a vicious temper. And you have done many evil things, but I will not list them yet again. What's done is done, there's no way to alter it. My question to you is this: can you set aside the petty grievances, the evils, and return to life with me?"

The query cut him to the quick. Every fiber of his being begged for the return to her side, to the second chance of life. But what would happen the second time? Certainly succession was no great issue; he was no longer king and had no worry of providing for his people. But could he bear her presence, mocking him with his failure, with the lies that her death represented? Would he stand the malicious glint in her eye and taunting when things went wrong?

Or did he want to stay dead, alone, lost…without her?

He'd lived without Anne Boleyn once. Henry VIII would never do that again.

"Yes, Anne. There is no life without you, beloved," he said, gripping her forearms tightly and blinking rapidly to still the tears. Her dazzling smile lit up her face, lit up the room. The light began to grow more and more in the passing seconds, nearly burning his eyes…

**xXxXxXx**

Harry Thompson was back in Westminster, shielding his eyes from a burst of sunlight that shot through the grand room he was in. Breathing heavily, he wondered if he'd imagined all the events between Henry and Anne, or if it was real. Glimpsing the brunette goddess by the paintings again, he felt a pounding in his heart that he hadn't felt in a long time.

_Over five hundred years…_

Nanette Baker rubbed her face, banishing the brightness from her gaze. The vision had come on so rapidly, it shocked her to her core. Tossing her hair, she found herself returning the frank glare of the handsome young man across the room. In a show of confidence she'd never displayed for any guy before, she strode right up to him and extended her hand.

"Hello, I'm Nanette," she said, unsure of how he'd respond. She was eternally grateful that he'd returned the handshake offered.

"Harry. Harry Thompson," he introduced himself, his voice sounding far away. Like he was lost in a dream…in her dream. Unable to control herself, she found a single word creeping out of her mouth in surprise.

"…Henry?" she asked tentatively, the name so familiar and yet so foreign on her tongue. He stilled, shaking slightly, before a tear dropped onto his face.

"Anne."

He remembered, she'd found him. Though they'd been raised up as different people, under different names and in a different century, they'd recognized and found each other in life again. Pulling her into an embrace, Harry didn't know why, but he knew he could never let her go. Nanette clung onto him, knowing somehow she'd found her place in the world, by his side.


End file.
